


sing to me

by crooked



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire has yet another hidden talent Enjolras never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing to me

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [sucre-menthe](http://sucre-menthe.tumblr.com/post/59690641061/sing-to-me-sing-to-me-i-dont-want-to-wake-up-on)'s gorgeous artwork!

Enjolras' fingers dance over the albums, flipping through Grantaire's vinyl collection. It's not the first time he's been in his apartment. He's helped Bahorel bring him home, drunk and in a stupor, once before. Enjolras has been over with Joly and Bossuet, too, but it was a brief stop and he'd just lingered near the door. This is the first time he's come over for reasons that are entirely his own. This is the first time Enjolras has really _wanted_ to be here.

He can feel Grantaire's eyes on him, they have been since he arrived. He's nervous, Enjolras can tell, and the thought almost irritates him. How many times have they been in each other's presence? It's ridiculous. But then he realizes that there haven't been many times when they've been alone like this, when it's clear that this has nothing to do with an upcoming protest downtown or organizing a rally on campus. They're alone, in Grantaire's living room/kitchenette/bedroom (it really all sort of bleeds into one in the smallish box of a studio apartment), because something he still can't quite name compelled Enjolras to pick up his phone and send a simple text: **_Are you busy?_**

Grantaire wasn't, it turns out, and so here Enjolras stands. He's been there for nearly an hour now, long enough to have eaten through what they could of the Chinese food he'd brought with him. Neither of them had eaten dinner, so he figured why not? But it occurred to him too late that, _oh shit_ , bringing dinner over on a Friday night made this something of a date and that wasn't what this was supposed to be. Just what it was supposed to be was anybody's guess, but it definitely was _not_ a date.

Only he can tell that Grantaire cleaned up for it - both his apartment and himself. It hadn't exactly been filthy before, but Enjolras remembers things being just a bit less orderly than they are now. As for the man himself, Grantaire definitely wasn't wearing the green cardigan, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and indigo jeans he's wearing when Enjolras texted him. He is willing to put money on it. That's not an outfit that someone would just lounge around in, as he said he'd been doing. Enjolras had changed his own clothes, which had been perfectly fine to hang out with Combeferre earlier, so maybe it was a date after all.

Damn.

He'd have to deal with that later, though, because Grantaire comes up beside him and hands Enjolras the half-finished beer he'd been drinking during dinner. "Thanks," he says, trying not to think about the way their fingers brush as he takes the bottle. He is not in middle school any more. He didn't even entertain those silly thoughts back then, and he will not start now. He nods at the battered milk crate that the albums are in. "Not bad. It's a little more Urban Outfitters playlist than I'd like. But not bad."

Grantaire laughs, and it strikes Enjolras that he can't remember ever hearing it quite like this before: full and rich, not a trace of mocking or disbelief in it. "Shut up," he says, his tone entirely playful as he knocks his shoulder against Enjolras'. "Are you trying to call me a hipster? I take offense to that."

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow as he pulls out _The Boy with the Thorn in His Side_. "Really?" he asks. "And how many times have you seen _("500) Days of Summer_?"

Grantaire snatches the album from Enjolras with a laugh. "Oh, fuck off," he says, smiling and rolling his eyes at the same time. "The Smiths are amazing. It's not my fault it became trendy to like them. And the B-side on this is incredible." He crouches down and slides a record player out from beneath the wooden shelf his impressive vinyl collection is housed in. Enjolras watches him carefully extract the album, amused at the way he handles it as gently as a parent would handle his child. "Anyway," Grantaire continues, switching the turntable on and setting the needle on the record, "I wouldn't have pegged you for a musical _elitist_."

The smirk he flashes as he stands and pads over to the couch tells Enjolras he knows just what he's doing by dropping the e-word on him. "How _dare_ you," Enjolras says, with the appropriate amount of righteous indignation in his tone. He comes over and plops down on the opposite end of the sofa, pulling one leg up beneath him. "I am nothing of the sort! I will have you know that my music library is about as inclusive as—"

Grantaire isn't listening, though. He's staring just off to the side, as though he's waiting for something. Enjolras frowns, mouth opening to tell him something, but whatever it is dies on his lips because Grantaire's eyes close as the haunting piano melody pours out of the speakers.

 _And he begins to sing_.

It's soft and yet so unexpected it takes Enjolras by surprise, almost startling him. Grantaire has surprised him in the past with hidden talents revealed: a foreign language Enjolras never knew he spoke, his artistic abilities accidentally coming to light when he spies him doodling during a meeting. But this? He never saw this coming. Grantaire's voice is unpolished, untrained, but it's _good_. Enjolras is enthralled, completely, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

The man sitting beside him is Grantaire transfigured. He looks as though he's not even aware of his surroundings, swaying almost imperceptibly as he croons along with Morrissey. There's a peaceful look about him, an untroubled look, as the music takes him to a place Enjolras can only imagine.

And then his eyes open, mid-verse, and he fixes them on Enjolras. " _Sing to me, sing to me_ ," he sings, looking straight into his eyes. " _I don't want to wake up on my own anymore_." Enjolras feels heat rising to his cheeks, but he can't look away and Grantaire doesn't stop. " _Don't feel bad for me, I want you to know. Deep in the cell of my heart, I really want to go_."

If there are more lyrics after that, Enjolras doesn't give Grantaire a chance to sing them. He barely remembers to set his beer down before he surges toward him, closing the distance that had existed between their bodies on the couch, and all but crashes into Grantaire. When their lips meet, Enjolras lets out a soft moan that nearly eclipses the shocked whimper that issues from Grantaire. He cradles the back of Grantaire's head, fingers slipping into his black curls, his knee knocking against Grantaire's hip as he tries to get closer. Grantaire seems to be in a state of utter shock, only starting to really kiss him back just moments before Enjolras pulls away.

He falls back against the arm of the sofa, breathless, staring at Grantaire as though he wasn't the one to initiate things. Grantaire, absently touches his lips for a second before blinking at Enjolras, swallowing visibly. "What just happened?" he asks, and the blush creeping across the bridge of his nose shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

"I think we kissed," Enjolras says, grinning sheepishly.

Grantaire ducks his head and grins, too, and, really, he needs to stop. "I think, actually, _you_ kissed _me_."

Enjolras rubs at the back of his neck and his smile grows. "So I did," he admits.

"Huh," Grantaire says, his eyes shifting over to the record player. There's nothing but the faint, looping static signaling the end of record coming from the speakers, but Grantaire doesn't move to do anything about it. He looks back at Enjolras, at his lips first and then his eyes. "Maybe it would be okay if I kissed you now." It's a question, there's no doubt about that, and Enjolras smiles.

"Maybe," he says. "But not yet." Grantaire's face drops a bit as Enjolras gets up, but he isn't leaving. He quickly flips the album over and replaces the needle at the edge of it. Grantaire is grinning at him as he sits back down, much closer than before.

"I thought Apollo was above such mortal delights as The Smiths," Grantaire teases.

Enjolras grins, shaking his head at him. "Just shut up and kiss me."

So Grantaire does.


End file.
